


so the sun rises

by falterth



Category: Naruto
Genre: Because B doesn't get enough love, Gen, Rhyming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falterth/pseuds/falterth
Summary: So B had chosen words, words and words that sound alike. It’s day in, and it’s day out, and the words havetexture.They go up and down, and they ebb and flow, and inspiration comes so he feels and it spikes.(Heis,and hewill,and hewas,and the beat-rhythm in his head tells him to go and make a name, so he does.)(This is B’shome,with the leaves and the sky and the soft brown loam, and it crumbles between his fingers and giant beasts rumble, and trumpet, and their sounds reach high enough that even the moon can hear from its perch in the inky black sky.)(This is his life on the island, during peacetime and during bloodshed, when he lies back on the rocks and talks with Gyūki and waits for the day to begin.)





	so the sun rises

He’s B. Killer B. That’s the name, see. 

He has a brother who’s pretty cool. You have to be _strong_ and _smart_ and _calculating_ to watch over a whole village, and not just that, but you have to be able to see the good and bad in things, and you sometimes have to choose the thing that looks bad even when it’s the good choice. But his brother is A, the first and foremost, and he takes Kumogakure and does all these things condensed into one little word: rule. 

All great shinobi have quirks, he had noticed quickly, in the dawn of his childhood when things were so simple. Verbal tics. Hand gestures. Little orange books hidden in sleeves and weapon pouches. Not drugs, but a different sort of fix. 

So B had chosen words, words and words that sound alike. It’s day in, and it’s day out, and the words have _texture._ They go up and down, and they ebb and flow, and inspiration comes so he feels and it spikes.

He’s sleeping on the rocks near the waterfall when a beast comes out and teaches him. Meaning, meaning, meaning, and friendship, and his heart and head sing one word: _all._

Gyūki is his name, the great brown beast, and they bump fists and feelings—and when they finally share secrets, it’s cool, sweet relief, because if one thing’s true, they’re last but not least.

Just because his brother is important in the world of the shinobi doesn’t mean that B has a reason to lay like a fool on the ground. He _is,_ and he _will,_ and he _was,_ and the beat-rhythm in his head tells him to go and make a name, so he does. And when it’s there he looks the fame in the eyes and tells it he’s good, thanks, but I’ll see you around.

So he is respected. A is hard on him, because that’s what the Raikage is all about, and his brother especially, and all in all, it’s . . . not unexpected.

Gyūki is kind, and loving, and indulges in all of B’s rhymes. Loving and tough, and he reminds B of the waterfall and of truth and of mirrors, so when it’s years later and the whole world is fighting and he tries to be a teacher to this little blond guy who doesn’t know jack shit about the world, he thinks back to these memories and it’s: good times, good times, good times.

The village is—scared of him. Respectful but scared, so B picks up another habit along the way, one that takes him everywhere and up, day after day, through thick and thin and bright and dim. Traveling is peace; and bad things release (their hold on him). 

It’s okay, he thinks through all the hurt. Because these people don’t know. And _how_ could they know, when they’ve never been able to see? There’s a best friend in his head that they think is a monster, but really. The color of dirt is home to him now, and _Gyūki, Gyūki, Gyūki_ wraps around and around in his head, and he wishes they would know better—but they don’t and it’s not wrong, just . . . sad.

It’s an island, and it’s his whole world, and it’s plants and earth and animals that are bigger than his old house back in Kumo. This is B’s _home,_ with the leaves and the sky and the soft brown loam, and it crumbles between his fingers and giant beasts rumble, and trumpet, and their sounds reach high enough that even the moon can hear from its perch in the inky black sky. 

Her name is Yugito, and she is strong. So young, and looking like she would rather be any place but here, here in the detestable hardness of Kumo’s walls, like she would rather be flying and pouncing and dreaming and _happy._ But she works. Works, and her dedication is a song that is filled with words like: _not just yet, duty, sacrifice, Matatabi, slink, work, the walls and walls, pride._ And he respects her. Because she is confident. Because she is proud of her strength, because she _knows_ her strength. Because he can see how badly she is pulling at her restraints, but even more so because he can see the restraints that she has put upon _herself—_ and that she dares not pull on those. It aches, on the worst of days, when he sees her walking with her head held high, and talking with her superiors like everything is fine. But it’s not, and it won’t be, and if it’s a lifeline for B on those days when all he sees is angry, grey clouds, then he doesn’t say anything, and if _she_ picks up on it, either from B’s closeness in those times or from the carefully neutral looks sent her way, she doesn’t say anything either.

This is life in Kumogakure.

This is his life during the war.

This is his life when he receives less and tugs on the village for more. 

This is his life when A shakes his head and says, silly you. Focus less on rapping and more on defending and maybe we’ll see this through.

This is his life on the island, during peacetime and during bloodshed, when he lies back on the rocks and talks with Gyūki and waits for the day to begin.

This is his life when he tells a jinchūriki-brother that he has to know himself.

This is his life in the very dawn of his childhood, when things were so simple.

This is his life in the dusk of his years, when the war is over and he finally _has._

So he lives well and well on, and the sun rises in the east, and he rhymes.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are like miracle cures for really bad headaches please leave em


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